Touch Therapy
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sometimes even a Winchester has to be hugged into submission. Blatantly comfort-y.


**Touch Therapy**  
K Hanna Korossy

Dean pulled the Impala into the spot in front of the room Sam had said in his message. Then he cut the engine and just sat for a minute with his hands draped over the steering wheel.

Sometimes it was easy to forget they had friends despite the lifestyle they led. Once, he would've said there wasn't anyone in the world whose last name wasn't Winchester who cared whether he lived or died. But turned out they had quite a few people out there, hunters and not, to whom they mattered, and that…that was something. Jefferson's call for him to come pick up something had clearly just been an excuse to find out if he really was back from the dead, and the way the older man's eyes had glistened at the sight of him still left Dean incredulous.

He cleared his throat, tilting his head disbelievingly with a quick smile as he slid out of the car. It was good to be alive. He didn't remember anything from Hell besides the occasional quick flash of horror, there was no deal hanging over his head, and Sammy had managed to stay in one piece while he was gone. Yeah, so the idiot had done some things he shouldn't have meanwhile, but that wasn't completely incomprehensible, and he'd vowed to stop. Sam had even smiled and joked around on their recent bizarre shapeshifter-monster movie case. Things were getting back to normal, and it felt good.

Duffel in hand, Dean jogged up the steps to the motel room and knocked.

The trip to Jeff's had taken almost four days, and Sam had opted to go check out a possible hunt meanwhile, a series of suspicious suicides. Dean had been a little reluctant for him to do it on his own, but Sam had pointed out that he'd hunted solo for more than a year, between the Trickster's little dead-Dean trick and then the real thing. Dean had pointed out in turn that that wasn't exactly the most convincing argument considering that neither time had Sam exactly been at his best. But apparently Sam's pointing was a lot more effective because, next thing Dean knew, he was making the trip alone and Sam had gone hunting. He'd promised he'd be careful and, well, it was only four days. Dean had talked to him just the night before and he'd been fine. A little scary in the full-on hunting mode he seemed to inhabit since Dean's return, but safe. That was what mattered. The hardened hunter act…well, that was why he still needed his big brother, right? Kid would be a total stiff on his own.

There'd been no answer to his knock, Dean realized with a frown. Sam was on foot so there was no telling if he was in or not, but he'd been expecting Dean around this time, said he'd be here. "Sam?" Dean called through the door. "Open up, dude, it's cold out here." November in the Dakotas: always a good time. "Sam?"

No answer but…was that a shuffle of sound from inside?

Dean's eyes narrowed. He patted his pockets in search of his lock pick set while his other hand went to the door knob, eyebrows climbing as the knob turned easily in his hand. Unlocked door—what the…?

He pushed it open slow and careful, his searching hand having given up the picks and gone to his gun instead. "Sam?" he called cautiously into the dark room. "You throwing me a surprise party?"

The shades were pulled and the lights were off. Stray, weak sunbeams kept the room from being pitch black, but while Dean's eyes adjusted, it might as well have been. There was the vaguest shape of a bed near him and that was about it.

"Sammy?" he called low, instincts prickling.

"Come inside," came the almost unrecognizably husky call from the inky far side of the room. "Shut the door."

Okay, Sam was there and talking: that was good. The dark room, the weird tone in his little brother's voice, and the utter wrongness of the situation, not so much. Still, there were a hundred things Sam could do if he was being held against his will or if Dean was walking into a trap, and he hadn't done them, so Dean cautiously obeyed for the moment, slipping inside and closing the door behind him.

The room took shape in the gloom. Two beds, a table overflowing with stuff, two chairs, an open bathroom door. No Sam, except, maybe on the far bed…? No, not on the bed. Behind it on the floor. It was only because he was ginormous that his head even stuck up above the edge.

"Sam?" Dean heard his voice sharpen with worry as he moved forward.

"Stop." The coldness of the command ground him to a halt. "Show me the tattoo."

"What?" Dean blinked, face scrunching at the weird request.

"Tattoo. Now."

That was when he finally saw the glint of the gun.

His skin prickled with concern even as the calm of crisis mode washed over him. Okay, so, something was wrong; Sam was on a hunt; he needed Dean to do this. Simple. Dean stopped questioning, stopped moving, just strained to see his brother's shadowed face as he tugged down the collar of his shirt, revealing the tattoo above his heart. "Okay? Anything else?" he asked quietly.

"Silver," Sam ground out.

Dean sighed. He hated this part. But he dug out his silver blade from under his jeans willingly, rolled up his left sleeve, and slid the knife lightly across his forearm, just enough to draw blood.

The gun sagged down off the edge of the bed; Dean was finally accepted as a friendly. But "check the salt" was Sam's only response, voice growing increasingly husky.

Dean eyed him a moment more, watching Sam's focus turn downward, and Dean heard the quiet slide of stone on metal start up. Huh. Okay then. Ignoring his bleeding arm, Dean glanced around the room.

Sam's duffel was on the table along with the laptop and, it seemed, every book from the Impala's trunk, but the weapons bag wasn't there. Where…? Oh. It was sitting on the floor in front of Sam, its contents seemingly strewn in an arc around him. Moving slowly and exaggeratedly, Dean picked out the metal canister of salt and went to treat the door and windows, flipping on a light on the way. "You gonna tell me what's going on here?" he asked mildly as he worked, eyes half cast back over his shoulder.

Sam didn't look up, just kept sharpening the knife, rhythm unfaltering. The lack of an answer didn't surprise Dean, but it didn't untie the knot in his gut, either.

The windows and door salted, Dean moved to the bathroom, glancing over the table as he went. Dad's journal lay open on top to the section on—yeah, okay, so that was nasty. If that's what Sam had been hunting, no wonder he was a little freaked out.

The room fully kosherized, Dean went ahead and added any wards he could think of off the top of his head. They didn't treat every room, just on hunts where they had reason to think something might come after them. Which Sam apparently did. Dean had still seen no sign of injury, couldn't smell any blood, and that wasn't pain in his brother's voice, but there were a lot of ways to get hurt in their line of work.

The room locked down, Dean finally returned to the bed and crouched down beside it, not five feet between him and his brother. "It's done."

Sam's shoulders didn't seem to unknot any, still curved up around his ears. He continued to work intently, and Dean's gaze trailed down to his hands and the whetstone and knife they were working with. And the irregular dark red stains on both.

Dean cursed, lunging forward to catch Sam by the wrists. "What the… Sam, stop! What's wrong with you?"

Sam immediately went stiff, arms corded like steel as they pried themselves free of Dean's grip. When had his little brother gotten so strong? "Have to be ready. Don't—I have-have to be ready."

"You call this ready?" Dean demanded, grabbing again, this time for the whetstone. The stone file slid wetly through his fingers, and he had a glimpse of the correspondingly bloody grooves in Sam's palm before his brother's hand tightened around the implement in a fist, reclaiming its hold. "Sam—"

Sam glared at him through his lashes, and this close Dean could see the blue smudges of exhaustion on his eyelids. "No. I can do this. Leave me alone." Under his breath, he repeated to himself, "I can do this. I have to be ready." The knife scraped against the stone again.

Dean stared at him, appalled. How long had Sam been sitting there in paranoid compulsion, preparing for some theoretical enemy to come rushing through the door? Prepping weapons until his hands literally bled from the work?

Or, worse, how long would he have kept doing it if Dean hadn't returned? And had he been like this when there had been no Dean to return?

Dean set his jaw and leaned forward again, wrapping his hand around the stone lubricated with his brother's blood. He'd take the chance that Sam wasn't so beyond reason that he'd go through Dean to keep working. "It's done, bro," he murmured, "you hear me? It's good. We're ready."

Sam muttered something, face twisting, but he relinquished the stone, followed by the curved blade to Dean. His battered hands, however, just moved on to the handgun that was lying beside his knee, and started to disassemble it, sliding bullets out with his thumb, leaving smears of dark red on each.

Dean swallowed, shoving the reclaimed whetstone and knife under the bed and reaching for Sam again. "Hey. I've got this, okay? Why don't you relax a little, let me finish up."

Sam growled and yanked the gun away, obsessively taking out, then replacing each bullet. Checking and rechecking every weapon in his arsenal, always prepared, always on guard.

Dean flashed back to the way Sam had laid out all their weapons after that whole damn mystery spot ordeal. The way the trunk had been reorganized with ruthless efficiency after his return from Hell. Dean had thought he'd understood both times, how Sam had been trying to find some small bit of control when everything else in his life had totally spun out of control. But Dean was starting to think he'd missed the point. Without anyone there to watch his back, the paranoia they'd been raised with had taken Sam over. He'd turned into consummate-hunter dude just to survive, defending himself the only way he knew how.

And even though Dean was back now, another solo hunt had triggered those instincts all over again, spiraled them out of control. Dean didn't even want to think about how close Sam had still had to be riding to that edge to fall over so easily.

"Sam." Dean dared sidle closer, enough that he could've finally seen Sam's eyes if they were more than slitted open. "Are you hurt? Talk to me, man."

Sam shook his head, hair sliding heavily across his forehead. Click, click, click, his fingers fed the bullets into the clip, everything stained with blood.

"Sammy…" Frustrated with helplessness, Dean again cut the distance between them, stretching to touch Sam's face, then slide down to his neck, checking his pulse. Hard and a little fast, just like his respiration. Dean continued down, checking ribs, looking for blood, skating over trembling flesh and muscle and filthy clothes that crumbled dirt at his touch. Sam's skin was chilled and dry, and he didn't react once to Dean's prodding. "We in danger here? Need to bail?" Dean asked carefully.

Another shake of the head. On some level, Sam knew it was him and was responding to him. Just not on the sane, _let's talk about this_ level.

Okay. Whatever. As far as Dean was concerned, his brother had just relinquished command. "All right, then, c'mon, dude, we're done for the night. Time to give it a rest." He grabbed for the gun and the clip at the same time, dividing Sam's attention.

Only half-prepared for it when Sam suddenly went nuts on him.

Dean shoved the weapon after the knife and quickly made a grab for Sam's flailing arms. He winced more at the frantic stream of _no!_ coming from his brother's mouth than the blow that glanced off the side of his head. Good thing Sam was run down, because he was John Winchester-trained in close-quarters fighting, but he was uncoordinated and sluggish now, more panic than thought.

Which was why Dean didn't waste too much time trying to be logical. Even as he barked, "Calm down, Sammy, it's me, it's just me," he went straight to instinct, too, and wrapped his arms tight around Sam's writhing form. "Easy, easy. You're safe, I promise you. You're safe."

Sam keened softly, the sound digging its way painfully into Dean's heart, and managed to work one arm free, grabbing for another knife that lay on the floor nearby.

They had to get away from the weapons. With a grunt, Dean shoved up from the floor, Sam still tight in his grip, and tumbled them onto the bed. Kicking until they were both more or less completely on the mattress, he slid one arm up to catch Sam's head in the crook of the elbow, then just tucked him close and rode out the storm. His whispered chant of "You're safe, you're okay, I'm here," played on repeat as he hoped some of it would finally slip through the cracks of Sam's automated defenses.

A knee threatened to emasculate him even more than their hugging on the bed already did, and Dean twisted to narrowly avoid it. Okay, so maybe he wasn't exactly making a lot of progress getting through to Sam. Dean sighed and wrapped his legs around Sam's mile-long ones. He wound his arm around Sam's head and dropped a palm over his eyes, redirecting his traitorous senses to focus on who was holding him. Then with his free hand, Dean towed Sam's bloody fingers up between them, locking his arms around the kid's—_man's_—elbows to trap them in place, and started rubbing up and down his back.

The hunt hadn't been responsible for this, not really. Being alone had. Human contact—simply knowing someone else was there, someone he could trust—was what Sam needed now. It was that easy and that hard.

"Okay, Sam, come on now, this is good," Dean said gruffly. "We're good."

The body in his arms felt stiff as a day-old corpse for a moment, all tensed muscle and held breath. And then Sam exhaled with a whoosh, surrendering himself silently into Dean's hold.

Dean was both grieved and relieved when the tough guy his brother had recently become surrendered without a word. He ducked his head down. "You're safe, Sam," he switched to whispering, then repeated it firmly over and over. "No one here but us, dude, and I've got your back. You're safe."

He wasn't sure if it really was; they'd figure that out later. But for this moment, this day, here in this room, it was true. Sam wasn't fighting alone anymore, never would again if Dean could help it.

"Kinda sucks, doesn't it?" he sighed. "Yeah, I hear ya. But you're okay now."

Sam was quiet except for the soft wheeze of his breath and the occasional clack of his teeth as he shivered. It was a lot like immediately after Jessica had died, Sam pliant and limp and depleted.

Dean just folded him closer and shut his eyes. "I'm here, Sammy. I've got watch." Willing his belief into every word.

He remembered too keenly what it felt like to be on the other end.

He'd come home drunk, a couple of years back, still reeling from having punched Sam, from Gordon's betrayal, not to mention the constant crushing grief of his dad's death. It took all Dean had just to get up in the morning, and that didn't leave him any reserves for the day: the now-meaningless hunts, Sam's suffocating grief and pleading looks, the unfamiliar territory of not having orders to follow…and the constant churn of nausea at the thought of the final orders Dean _did_ have. Save Sam or kill him? How could he do that? How could Dad have done that?

It had been a relief to drown the constant scream in his head into a background buzz.

He wasn't sure how he'd gotten back to the motel that night, what he'd even said to Sam. But when Sam had looked him in the eye and sorrowfully asked, "What would Dad think of you now, man?" something had finally swelled in Dean beyond control, erupted and shoved him over the edge.

He'd trashed half the room before he was even aware of it, dripping blood from splintered glass and drywall. He'd been utterly without restraint, a killing machine with no one at the controls. Anybody sane would have left him there to self-destruct, taken off running.

Sammy never had been the sensible one.

He was pretty sure Sam had tackled him. Somehow or another they'd ended up on the floor, Gigantor on top, mashing Dean into the filthy carpet. But instead of returning Dean's wild blows, Sam had…hugged him into submission. Wrapped those long, gangly arms around him, trapping his own flailing limbs, and just held him. And when Dean had stopped yelling, Sam had started talking.

He had no idea how long they lay there on the floor. Long enough that Dean finally ran out of steam and stopped fighting. Long enough that whatever had leaked out of his eyes had time to dry up, for Sam to go a little hoarse and Dean's hands and feet to grow numb. Long enough to pull him back up onto the ledge and make sure his feet were firmly planted.

Dean hadn't hugged back, never met Sam's eye, had never even acknowledged what had happened. But Sam had saved him that night, and Dean was pretty sure they both knew it.

Sam hiccupped into Dean's shirt, bringing him back to the here and now. His little brother was down to the occasional shudder, and the beat of his heart against Dean's chest seemed less labored, more steady. His eyelashes no longer fluttered against Dean's damp palm, and the boneless hands trapped between them had curled a little, just enough for the fingertips to catch in Dean's shirt. They'd have to be treated sooner or later, but that wasn't what Sam needed the most right now.

He wasn't crying like he had when Dean had held him after Jessica. He wasn't talking his pain out like he had most of his life. He wasn't even embracing Dean back, as he had in the motel when Dean had first showed up post-Hell. He just lay still, letting his brother hold him together.

Dean didn't know what Sam had been through in the months his big brother had been gone. A part of him was afraid to ask, riddled with guilt and fear over the possibilities. But it had obviously been bad, and things definitely weren't back to normal. Maybe they never would be.

Sam swallowed, and Dean held him a little closer, continuing his quiet litany of safety.

No matter what, though, he was determined to save Sam, too.

**The End**


End file.
